


Porcelain and Pyrex

by vanillafluffy



Category: Forever - Fandom, The Trixie Belden Mysteries - Julie Campbell Tatham & Kathryn Kenny
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:54:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21608644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: For the prompt, "Trixie Belden...injured during an investigation and getting unexpected assistance from a stranger".
Comments: 12
Kudos: 17
Collections: Bite Sized Bits of Fic from 2019





	Porcelain and Pyrex

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



There aren’t a lot of places specializing in the kind of antiques Trixie is tracking. She’s methodically working her way through the list--geographic, not alphabetical, because otherwise she’d be bopping back and forth around Manhattan like a ping-pong ball. 

When her main suspect walks out of the next place on the list, she can’t repress a gasp. It’s Connors, and he’s carrying a gym bag that’s just the right size to hold the missing statue. 

“Hey!” she calls out. 

Recognition on his face, he lunges at her, shoving her hard sideways. Since he outweighs her by a full sixty pounds, Trixie staggers. Just when she thinks she’s regained her balance, she goes off the curb with a crash. 

Luckily, there’s no oncoming traffic. She pulls herself to her feet, ready to take off in hot pursuit--Connors is almost to the far end of the block--but a couple steps is all it takes for her to realize that she isn’t going anywhere in a hurry. Her left ankle shots bolts of pain up her leg with each attempt to walk, and when she reaches for her phone, she notices that her left elbow must have banged the pavement as well.

“Hold on--are you alright?” The man who rushes up to her looks concerned. “Careful…here, take my arm, you can sit down in here--”

“He’s getting away!” Trixie exclaims impatiently as Connors darts around the corner.

“He who?”

“The man who pushed me. He stole a very valuable statue from some people in Westchester County and I’m trying to get it back for them. Ow!”

“Stop trying to walk on it!” her would-be rescuer advises. “Lean on me.” 

Unwillingly, Trixie rests her hand on one wool-clad sleeve and limps toward the shop Connors had exited. Although her helper is quite a bit taller than she is--around six feet tall--he moves at her pace, not hurrying. 

Nice looking, she notes automatically. His dark, tousled hair reminds her of her brother Brian, but he has a longer, rectangular sort of face. A few lines on his face--she’d guess he’s at least thirty-five to her twenty-five. Warm brown eyes study her just as curiously.

“Are you a police officer?” he asks as they reach the door.

“No, I’m a private investigator,” Trixie answers. 

His eyebrows life and he almost says something, but apparently thinks better of it. “Has this theft been reported to the police?” he asks.

“Yes, in Westchester, but I know perfectly well that the New York cops have better things to do than keep an eye out for something that wasn’t even stolen from their jurisdiction!” Trixie declares. “And it’s a family heirloom--it’s been in the family for close to two hundred years!”

“My goodness. Here, take a seat and let me have a look at that ankle.” 

“Are you a doctor?” she wants to know, because she’s a little annoyed that he’d stopped her instead of letting her chase Connors.

“He is, and a darned good one!” says another voice. An elderly man walks toward them from the back of the store, a broad smile on his face. “Who’s your friend, Henry?”

“I’m a private investigator,” Trixie answers before the tall man does. “A man just left here with a sports bag--did he sell you, or try to sell you a piece of Meissen porcelain? It was stolen from an estate in Westchester County and I’m trying to get it back for the rightful owners.”

The shopkeeper shakes his head. “I don’t deal in stolen goods,” he says, “and I had a feeling the guy was fishy. He claimed he inherited it from an aunt. Couldn’t tell me a thing about it, said she used to do a lot of online shopping. Which could be true, I don’t know--but he didn’t have anything like a receipt or legal paperwork--if it was from an estate, there’d be something! So I told him I wasn’t interested.”

“Drat!” Trixie screws up her face in pain as the alleged doctor flexes her foot. “Don’t do that, it hurts!”

“I think you’re going to need to get that x-rayed,” Henry tells her. “Abe, I’m sorry to bail on our lunch, but this young lady needs help.”

“What’s your name, little lady?” Abe asks.

“Trixie Belden.” Connors is probably halfway to Jersey by now, she may as well play nice.

“Nice to meet you, Trixie. I’m Abe Morgan, and this is my son Henry, who is a very gifted medical examiner…so you probably want somebody who’s used to working on live patients to take a look at your injuries.”

“It’s basic first aid,” Henry objects. “I’m certainly qualified to do that. I could strap it up, but I can’t just look at it and tell for sure if it’s broken! She ought to have it x-rayed.”

“In answer to your question, Trixie, yes, that guy did have a really nice piece of Meissen-ware. I know a guy off Central Park who knows everything there is to know about Meissen. I sent him over there.”

Trixie pulls out her list. “Josephson Fine Arts?”

“That’s right. I was about to give him a heads-up when you came in. Hold on….” Abe pulls out a cell phone. Trixie listens as he talks to his contact. “Marvin! Abe here. Look, you’re going to be getting a visitor soon. Shady character in an old army jacket, carrying a duffel bag with a real pretty piece of Meissen Bottger in it. A cavalry officer on horseback…uh-huh. Really? Yes, I believe you’re right. I’ve got a P.I. here saying it’s hot. Good, let me know. Thanks!”

Abe has a cheerful grin on his face as he hangs up. “That guy--what a memory! He knows that statue; I guess he appraised it for the real owner at some point. Worth a nice chunk of change, according to him. He’s ready to lock the guy in and call the police as soon as your pal walks in.”

“Terrific!” Trixie exclaims, beaming at him. “Thanks, Abe!” She winces. Trying to do a fist-pump was definitely not a good idea!

“Take off your jacket and let me get a look,” Henry says firmly.

She shrugs out of it with some difficulty. Her elbow is quite swollen.

“We’re going to need some ice for that.”

“Not on the Chippendale chaise, we’re not!” Abe responds. He trudges away, returning a moment later with a modern office chair. “Try this, Trixie. More comfortable and not here on consignment!”

With Henry’s help, Trixie transfers into the newer chair, which she has to admit is more comfortable than the old couch Henry parked her on. By the time that’s done and they’ve steered her toward the back of the shop, Abe is back with a bowl filled with ice. "Here, stick your elbow in this.”

“It’s a Big Bertha!” Trixie blurts, looking at it.

“Excuse me?” Abe looks quizzically at her.

“A Big Bertha! My mom collects Pyrex. That ginormous size is what she calls a Big Bertha.”

Abe stares at the blue and white bowl for a moment. “It’s not exactly an antique.”

“Vintage,” Trixie says knowingly. “Moms has a whole bunch of it. She got into a tug of war at a rummage sale a while ago for something or other just because it was pink. Apparently pink is what everybody wants.”

“This isn’t pink,” Abe points out. “Do you think it’s worth anything?” Henry laughs. “That’s not my area of expertise,” Abe says with dignity. “To me, it’s one of my mother’s old dishes. I can’t remember the last time I’ve used it.”

“It’s not my area of expertise, either,” Trixie admits. “I only know what she’s told me. But it’s big, and there’s no dishwasher damage…probably twenty or thirty dollars? I don’t really know.”

“Okay, I’ll split the difference. Twenty-five dollars and it’s yours. Mother’s Day is next month, buy that and you’re all set!”

Henry groans, but Trixie can’t get her wallet out fast enough. “It’s a deal.”

She spends the next couple hours with her foot propped up on a cushioned chair with an ice bag on it, elbow in the Pyrex bowl, chatting with the Morgans. Abe makes them egg salad sandwiches with dill pickles on the side and they discuss the difference between antique and vintage. Henry isn't quite as talkative as Abe, but he's helpful about taping Trixie's ankle, which helps with the pain. She doesn't think it's actually broken, but agrees to have it looked at when she gets home.

Abe’s phone rings. There are cops at his friend’s store, holding Connors, and Trixie is able to give them the number of the police report her client had filed in Westchester, and adds that she intends to press charges against him for assault--she has a witness. In return, Detective Martinez gives her the reference number for the evidence seized during the capture of Michael Connors. Triumphantly, she calls her client to announce that the artifact has been found and is in police custody. It may take a little fancy footwork to get it back without the owner having to make the trek into the city, but she’s sure they can work something out.

Trixie disconnects and smiles at her new friends. “You guys have been fantastic,” she tells them warmly. “Thanks so much--I’ll be in your debt forever!”

...


End file.
